Turkey Time...

     Spring in our neck of the woods…Dogwoods and redbuds in bloom, morels popping up, the scent of honeysuckle, locust trees flowering…marshmallow peeps and chocolate bunnies and my annual love/hate relationship with Eastern wild turkeys!

     Frustrating, aggravating, exhausting…Ugh! All ways to describe turkey hunting in late April! How can a semi-flightless bird with the brain the size of a pea outwit and outsmart me on a routine basis? I am after all a member of the species at the top of the food chain…Why do I even chase the fool birds? Why!

     Call, don’t call, did I “over” call? Is he coming in or not? Roost the birds here the night before, they show up over there the next morning…Set up perfectly, not a sound made, still as a statue and he walks the other way. Completely incognito, camouflaged from head to toe, blended in seamlessly only to have his x-ray vision pick you off as he “putts” and spits and tells all the other birds you’re here…busted again! You sneak in under the cover of darkness and they fly to the next ridge…You slip into your spot only to find that the birds have slipped to another. He comes in blasting gobbles one second and then sneaks in, stealthy silent the next, only to sound off ten feet from you, nearly causing cardiac arrest! He’s answering your best impression of a love sick hen, coming on a frozen rope cutting the distance only to hang up at a broken down stand of barb wired fence or a teeny, tiny ditch…Full strut, outdoor theatre at its best, with his electric blue head changing colors just to have him lock up beyond your decoys, too far to shoot and too close not to try…Then there’s snakes and spiders, ticks and mosquitoes and don’t forget the poison ivy and dew soaked webs…

     Yep, frustrating…but when the plan all comes together, that booming gobble, that thick, black rope of a beard, his fan fully displayed, moving side to side as tom makes his way in to impress all the girls and show the other guys who’s boss…that rush of adrenalin, the goose bumps and raised hairs, that quickening in your breath, the pounding of your pulse…the colors of the wild flowers, the smell of the damp dirt. The early morning sunrise…The draw of your bow or the subtle click of the safety on your shotgun at the moment of truth…challenging, exciting, thrilling…that’s why.

    

Campfire conversation

     “Are you bored, Bud?” I asked my 14 year old as he lay sprawled across the couch. “No, not really” was his reply, but his body language and demeanor told another story. “Well, I’m going outside” I shot back. “What are you going to do?” he questioned…What would I do…It was too late in the day to try and hunt mushrooms and the undergrowth taking over the woods would make it nearly impossible to tromp around and look for shed antlers. We could shoot our bows, but this late in the evening would make that short lived and there wasn’t enough time to load up the fishing gear and head out to wet a line…Then it came to me, a fire! “I’m gonna build a campfire”…Almost before I could finish the sentence, he was off the couch, boots on and out the door.

     We gathered up some tender and kindling and made our way to the make shift fire pit at the edge of the woods…In no time, the boy coaxed a good flame from a tiny flicker that would make any seasoned woodsman proud. The April air was just cool enough to make the warmth of the fire welcome. The flames popped and cracked and danced as the smell of hickory smoke, green cedar and even some old kiln dried 2x4’s filled the air…

     We fed the fire and poked at its orange and white coals and watched how they breathed…We talked about hunting and seasons past and upcoming. We talked about shots taken and hits and misses…Deer with giant antlers and gobbling turkeys. We talked bows and arrows and sharpening knives. Trucks and tree stands and survival skills…We talked about fishing and bluegill fillets and ones that got away. We talked about school and friends and classmates and grades…We talked about noises in the dark and night time in the woods.

     From him it was usually “Wouldn’t it be awesome if” or “I wish that we could” and “When I’m older, I’m going too”…and I’d sit back and listen and nod and smile. From me it started with, “When I was your age” and “I remember when” and “We used too”…and he’d sit back and listen and laugh.

     For two solid hours, we did nothing and at the same time it was everything. We leaned into our chairs, prodded the flames, bathed in the wood smoke and slugged our A&W’s from their brown bottles…We joked, we talked, we dreamed and we thought.  We were outdoors…but most of all we just “were”…We were father and son. A middle aged guy and his teenage boy just being what and who we were supposed to be. No cell phones, no notebook or laptop. No Dish or cable, just the two of us…

     The flames start to die down as the last piece of punky wood hisses and pops and sends sparks skyward…I take one last sip of my root beer and glance at the young man to my left silhouetted by the fire and wonder if he’s still bored…

The Phone Call Buck...

     

     It all started as  I rushed to grab the phone on the last ring and before I could get “hello” out of my mouth, my buddy blurted out that I needed to get over there and that the pre-rut was kicking into high gear. The bucks were up and running…That was all the encouragement I needed to hear!

     Just a few hours later found me sitting in my favorite stand on my buddy’s farm with recurve in hand.  It’s perched above the nastiest tangle of cut over woods you’ve ever seen and if it has thorns on it, it grows there.  Not a picture postcard type of woods by any stretch, but the deer are in love with this hillside and holler. It’s a prefect natural funnel from feeding to bedding areas and my spot is right in the thick of it…

     The evening’s watch was slow, but I was on pins and needles just hoping for a big one to pass under me.  I occupied myself by watching a couple of gray squirrels perform their aerial stunts from grape vine to grape vine. I’m always amazed that they don’t fall to their death. An occasional hedge apple would fall to the ground, sounding all the world like a deer running through the woods, causing my heart rate to jump ten fold! A check of my watch, 6:30pm…If it’s going to happen, it needs to happen soon. Shadows were growing long on my hillside and shooting light was fading fast. Finally, that tell tale crunch…Three does slowly feeding their way towards me. If one comes close, I’ll let an arrow fly. A few minutes passed and the girls hit a trail that took them out of my comfort zone. I watched as they nibbled their way into a field at the top of the hill.

     Light was now leaving and that gray darkness was pouring in…those last few minutes when it seems like the world is on a dimmer switch. I pulled my facemask down to gain those precious few moments of daylight. I leaned back against the trunk and just as I thought about calling it quits, movement out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t see all of him, but parts of a buck, slowly, cautiously moving my way…Glimpses of brown, white and antler in the brush. I willed him my direction and pled for him to pick up the pace. 25 yards away, but no chance at an arrow reaching him through the nightmare of briars and thorns. He vanished behind a tangle of locust and cedar and then reappeared on the hillside above me, 15 yards away…Pick your spot, lift the bow, pull back, let go…I hit anchor, pause, exhale. Everything turns to slow motion and the arrow arched towards the old boy. Thump!!! The arrow buried into the buck’s side and in an instant, crimson stained the crease behind his shoulder. He tucked low and raced for safety. As he covered ground through the woods, I could hear the clanging of my aluminum shafted arrow as it smacked the trees and I prayed the old Bear Razor did its job. A few seconds later and all was still…not a breath of noise.

  

       Now the shakes began. I had to sit down and catch my breath as I felt for my seat. What just happened? The buck was large, but I couldn’t say how big. Tall tines, but I didn’t notice much else. I went over the shot and tried to concentrate on the last spot I saw him as he peeled away. I caught my breath and tried to compose myself before I climbed down and slipped out of the woods. I made my way to my friend’s house where I recounted my story.

     We gathered our lights and made a couple of phone calls. Once our help was there, we took up the track. To say I was nervous was an understatement! Every bowhunter knows that “what if” feeling… We found the shot location in the darkness and headed to where I thought he traveled. A few yards into the trail and there was our first sign, a smear of blood, high up on some foliage. It was obvious that it wasn’t a pass through, but the frothiness of the sign gave me reason to be optimistic. The further we tracked, the heavier the trail became and it was obvious that the buck’s lungs had been compromised. As we entered a power line cut about 100 yards from where the shot was made, my buddy asked me if I wanted “my deer” and then shined the light on the largest buck I had ever taken. I literally ran up to the deer and was beside myself with joy! Hugs and back slapping all around and a heartfelt thank you to my pal for allowing me to hunt his place. 

     As I ran my hands over the old boy’s antlers and his gray coat, I could hear my buddies’ voices growing fainter in the background. Even though they were still there, my mind was blocking them out. This moment was between the buck and I. One to be treasured for a lifetime as I whispered my thank you Above and to the buck…

You can catch more than fish...

     The breeze is warm...a little too warm for late March, but I'm not complaining...Green everywhere as Spring has matured early this year. Not to distant, a hen turkey cuts and yelps, immediately a tom thunders a gobble back at her and I can imagine the display he's putting on as he tries to woo her affections and I'm wishing the season was in...The weeds have already grown shin high and I cuss myself for forgetting my boots...no doubt that the ticks and chiggers won't be far behind as we make our way across the field and down to the water's edge...

     The pond's water is dark from autumn's fallen leaves, but clear and cool...the cattails are shooting up and mats of camouflaged moss float to the surface and drift too and fro in the gentle wind...the water ripples and dances in the breeze and glints of diamond in the late afternoon sun. Fish boil away from the shore as we hike to the opposite bank. The sound of spring peepers and songbirds mingle with the turkeys and crows on the hill above us...

     A soft plastic jig, chartreuse and white, silently enters the water at the end of a little flip cast. Rod tip up as the eighth ounce weight sinks towards the bottom. There it is on the fall...The bite is delicate, almost undetectable save for the sudden hesitation of my fishing line and the slightest of pressure on my index finger...a faint tug and the hook is set! The fight is hard as the white and green flash of the crappie on the end of my line cuts through the water. He's quickly brought to the shore and his vibrant colors fluoresce in the sunlight. Into the basket and his fate is sealed...I check the line's knot and then it's right back into the water for a repeat performance, over and over...I'm caught up in my moment and as I glance at my son standing in the sun, he hooks his own slab and I notice how much larger his shadow is than mine and I quickly forget about the here and now and I'm transported back to a time when I was baiting his hook and taking fish off his line and a smile crosses my face and things stand still..."Dad...Dad!!! You have a fish on your line!" and I'm snapped back and am grateful...